


Imagery

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock appreciates imagery, regardless of the fact he is not a romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagery

Sherlock, while he has never been a romantic, has always been able to appreciate imagery. The image of “stealing a heart” is his favorite. The idea of someone’s hand stabbing into another’s chest and ripping out the vital organ has been one that has fascinated him since childhood.

For the record, however, he has never tried to do so.

It is a fact, though, that someone has deigned to attempt (and succeed at) the maneuver on him. And it is a little bit alarming and had arrived without warning. Sherlock finds that the term _steal_ is incredibly appropriate.

John Watson had appeared into his life (though, it is to be noted that _Sherlock_ invited _John_ into the current arrangements and not the other way around). And then, one day, almost quite literally because Sherlock is certain that he _felt_ John shove his hand into his chest and rip out the heart that everyone (including Sherlock himself) had been quite convinced did not exist, it happened to him.

The instant it did, Sherlock had had to check himself for the blood and gore that normally comes with fatal wounds. But he was still functioning, so it wasn’t fatal. And he wasn’t bleeding, so of course it was just a metaphor.

It just didn’t feel like one.

It takes months for Sherlock to decide that he is going to take John’s too, because what is the world without justice? (But, even though his heart was stolen, it does not feel like a bad thing. In fact, his heart feels better than it ever had in his malnourished chest, pumping only to keep up the transport.)

“John,” Sherlock announces to the room one day, and they are pressed together a tad awkwardly on the couch (there is a show on that John likes, something that Sherlock has yet to understand completely).

“Mm?”

“I want it.”

John turns to look at him, appalled. “Pardon?”

Sherlock stabs a long, bony finger right over John’s heart, where it is pumping John’s blood through John’s body. “I want it.”

“Ehm. Sherlock, I can’t exactly give it to you. I need it to live. Also, I’m certain we’re not the same blood type, though if there is something you’re not telling me—“

“You have mine.” John stops talking after Sherlock says this. “You stole mine and I want to steal yours.”

John clears his throat, the television program now forgotten. “You do know that stealing is usually best done when the victim doesn’t know?”

“I was unsure how to go about stealing a vital organ.”

John sort of smiles and looks away and then back. “Well. How did I steal yours?”

Sherlock frowns. “You were sitting in your chair, drinking tea, and I was doing he experiment with the human forearm and spider venom. And I was explaining it to you and then you said, ‘that’s absolutely brilliant, Sherlock,’ and then you took it. Somehow bypassing the pectoral muscle and the ribs and just removed it with a force that left me—“ he searches for the word.

“Breathless?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies suspiciously. “How did you know?” He had been subtle about his missing organ. Quite subtle.

“Because you’ve already got mine, Sherlock. Took it with you when you took off with a wink. ‘The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one bee Baker Street.’” John sort of laughs and it’s a weird feeling, this mutual stealing of one another’s most important things. (Next to Sherlock’s brain, of course.)

“I didn’t mean to steal from you,” Sherlock awkwardly intones.

“I didn’t mind. Still don’t. And I, on the other hand, am not sorry.”

“I didn’t say I was sorry,” Sherlock huffs, “I simply said I did not _mean_ to take it.” He searches John’s face, hesitating, “If there has been mutual organ stealing, does that mean we kiss?”

“Does the question mean you want to?” John blinks at him. (What had that program been about again?)

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. And so they do.

Sherlock has always been interested in imagery. But it will take a couple moments to catch his breath (then again, he hasn’t quite been able to catch it since John ran away with his heart) to come up with an appropriate metaphor.

In fact, Sherlock thinks he will try to come up with one some other time. Other things to do, you understand.


End file.
